Accordingly, when breakfast was over, Anna went up to her room to make the necessary preparations for her ride, while I stood by and gave her whatever assistance she needed. I observed that every article which belonged to her was put in its proper place, but I gave it no further heed, though I did wonder why she kissed me so often, turning back even after she had reached the door to bid me another good-bye. Slowly the day passed away and night came on, dark, cold, and stormy. Even now, as I write, I can recall to mind the gloom which pervaded my spirits, as I listened to the sound of the sleet and hail, which drove past the window, where I had watched so long for their return. Seven, eight, nine, ten, was rung from more than one church dome, and then we gave them up, for the shrill whistle of the last train on which they would be likely to come, had long since sounded in our ears. “They must have stayed somewhere; don’t you think so?” said my aunt, addressing her husband, who, manlike, was not in the least alarmed, but sat conning his evening paper, nearer asleep than awake. “Of course they have,” said he, looking up at his wife’s inquiry. “I wouldn’t come in this storm, if I were in their places.” That night I watered my pillow with tears, scarcely knowing why I wept, save that I felt oppressed with a sense of desolation, as if Anna was gone from me forever. The next day came and went, but it brought no tidings of the missing pair, and half unconscious of what she was doing, my aunt went from room to room, sometimes weeping and again brightening up, as she enumerated the many things which might have prevented their return. At evening, Ada came in, and my aunt immediately began urging her to spend the night. This she did willingly, seeming very anxious concerning the absence of Herbert, and feeling, I was sure, a little suspicious that I might know more of his whereabouts than I chose to tell, for once, when we were alone, she turned towards me and very haughtily asked, if “I had any idea where they were?” “None, whatever,” said I, and she continued— “Has it never occurred to you that this Anna Lee manifested altogether too marked a preference for a gentleman whom she knew to be engaged?” “The preference was mutual,” I replied. “Herbert liked Anna, and Anna liked Herbert.” “And they have gone off to consummate that liking by a marriage,” interrupted Ada. “I do not know that they have,” I returned; “but such a termination of affairs would not surprise me.”